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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499296">Strangers on a Plane</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat'>Iwantthatcoat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:13:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,440</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative meeting of Sherlock and John on a plane bound for London..</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Strangers on a Plane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy 10th, Sherlock and John!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello.”</p><p>The man forces himself to stop grimacing at the nearly pristine issue of Cosmopolitan he holds (clearly the original purchaser from the previous flight hadn’t thought much of it either and had tucked it, more or less unread, behind the safety instruction card) and turns toward his seatmate. “Hi,” he responds. The voiced glottal fricative is extended just long enough to demonstrate the proper amount of disdain for this sudden burst of...friendliness. </p><p>The problem, however, remains: the magazine is boring beyond words. Hopefully this ex-military officer with the fading tan isn’t. Sliding the magazine back into its hiding place, his mind spares a moment to imagine the February issue making its clandestine way around the world before the inept British Airways cleaning crew notices its existence. He secretly roots for its emergence in New York, triumphant. A half-turn shift, and he is now facing the stranger. </p><p>“I mean, hello,” he corrects himself. It is the barest suggestion of an apology, a verging-upon-insignificant change, yet the officer...lieutenant?..captain…? somehow manages to pick up on it, and smiles.</p><p>“London home for you, then...or are you visiting someone?”</p><p>The man—a captain, most likely—was clearly visiting someone himself and is now returning home. The placidity on his features is an easy read. A completed family obligation. Wrong time of year for weddings. Not a medical necessity, or the projected relief would be far more limited in its scope due to lingering concerns. The stranger is still young enough to have living parents, but...oh. He is supposed to be answering the posed question, isn’t he?</p><p>“Uh, yes. Home. Returning from helping my brother with a pet project. He’s too lazy to do things himself, so it falls to me to keep the peace.” In this case, quite literally. If the papers hadn’t been recovered, there would have been an international incident within the month. Forces on the ground within the year, given the current political climate.</p><p>He nods. “Yeah. I can relate. I’m pretty much always keeping the peace between everyone. Harry is learning to fight those battles without me, though. Finally.”</p><p>“Your younger brother.” It isn’t a question.</p><p>“Sister, actually. She’s doing really well lately, so I thought I’d pay her a visit. While things are still going well. Might not last, given her track record, but I did my part. What needed to be done.”</p><p>“Until next year.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>No. He isn’t any more interesting than the magazine. </p><p>They sit in silence, then Harry’s brother takes out his mobile, opens up an app, begins typing, and sighs. Loudly. Even putting his greatcoat against the window and burrowing his ears into it, the sounds of frustrated tapping seek him out, jarring his brain, as if the man were pushing on a keyboard, no, a manual typewriter, instead of a touch-sensitive screen. New model phone? Or just angry? Or...yes...both. Must be the sister. He makes a furtive attempt to glimpse the screen, out of idle curiosity. Not that Harry’s brother is all that interesting. There is just so little to do trapped in a tin box at 30,000 feet, comparatively speaking. He is successful enough to catch a few words.</p><p>John. His name is John. Even his name is boring. Not that everyone was blessed with something as not-boring as ‘Sherlock’, but...John. And Harry. Probably a Richard in there somewhere. Or a Charles. And John had been, indeed, texting angrily at his sister. Something about having done “it”, “just now”. Which, of course, he hasn’t. He hasn’t done a thing except speak to Sherlock. A stranger on a plane.</p><p>John flicks his eyes over quickly without turning his head and types some more. And tilts the screen away from view. </p><p>Now that is interesting.</p><p>He wasn’t particularly privacy-minded earlier when he was so forthcoming with family issues, but now John is downright coy. As if he was talking to his sister about...well, about him. But why? </p><p>“What did you need to tell her about me?” </p><p>John jumps in his seat. Such a physical reaction from an otherwise calm man is indicative of combat nerves. Maybe even Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. </p><p>“Sorry to have startled you. Your sister. You are clearly discussing something with her. And it was your choice to reinitiate contact after you had said you were more or less done for the year.”</p><p>“What makes you...why would you think I’m texting her about you?”</p><p>“Only because you are. And it seems she is being unusually persistent at the moment.”</p><p>John snickers. “No, actually. Not unusually. Not for her. And it isn’t anything important.”</p><p>“I also doubt it is important. But it might be interesting. And, quite frankly, I am very, very … very bored. What are you texting your sister, about me?”</p><p>“Look, it’s nothing personal, okay? I… I don’t know where to begin.”</p><p>“Begin at the beginning. We have time.” He crosses his long legs, inadvertently kicking the seat in front of him, and tents his fingers under his chin.</p><p>“Harry has been going through a rough time lately. Well, she almost always is. But she’s got a new therapist and has been tackling things head on, and I think it’s making a difference. She’s clean, at least. So far.”</p><p>“Drugs? Alcohol?”</p><p>“Alcohol. Watson family trait. She’s been stable for all of two months and now she thinks she has some sort of license to tell me all the things I should be doing that I’m not.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“And, she...thinks I’m not being...authentic.”</p><p>“Authentic.”</p><p>“Yeah. </p><p>“Which, she is.”</p><p>“Well, she always did speak her mind. To hell with the consequences. I guess I just, always care about consequences. That doesn't mean I’m fake or anything. I’m just more cautious. You could even say more responsible.”</p><p>Sherlock turns back toward the window.  He isn’t particularly good at family dynamics. “I’ve been assured I’m the irresponsible one,” he mutters. Whatever John Watson texted Harry Watson about him, knowing isn’t worth being dragged into some sibling drama.</p><p>“Well, I guess that isn’t right. She isn’t really trying to get me to be more irresponsible, more like... impulsive. Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. Contemplative. “She wants me to do more impulsive things. She says I’d feel more alive.”</p><p>Alive. </p><p>He turns toward his seatmate now. There is a certain dull expression in the eyes. Not that he seems to be all that dull a person, really. Just...there is something missing that was once there before. And not just before the war. Before… Before something. Sherlock is absolutely in over his head now. Not his area, helping people. Maybe if he could get more information, he’d have some idea what to do next. </p><p>“How did she imply you were not being authentic?”</p><p>John Watson doesn’t look flat anymore. He looks frightened. Well, at least those eyes have a bit of spark now, albeit for not quite good reasons. And they are lovely eyes. He finds himself looking at them just a tad too long, and he fusses with his coat for a moment to break the sight-line.</p><p>“Well, I guess the thing you need to know about Harry is she never was into men at all, you see, and she caught a lot of hell for it growing up. I told her not to go stealing my girlfriends. She— it was just a joke. I knew she never would try to do something like that— and then she told me flat out it wouldn’t work anyway, even if she did try, cause my girlfriends wouldn’t like her, now, would they? I said they might. And we, umm, had a bit of a talk about that.” John stops for a moment, takes a breath, and then decides to keep speaking. Like he has just turned some sort of corner and to keep on going is inevitable. “I said I like women. And I do. And she said she got that, seeing as she did too, and we had a bit of a laugh. But, then, I did tell her I sometimes liked to look at men, too. Not all of them. Just. Just some men. And just looking. And she laughed again. Not in a mean way. And she said I should try it out. And that I had a better chance of getting a date that way. And that was that. For a long time.”</p><p>Sherlock simply listens.</p><p>“But then—well, now, actually, just a few months ago—she started going to this new therapist, and she was right back into it. Picked up where she left off twenty years ago. Told me I was just scared to date a bloke. I told her it wasn't that. It was just that it’s hard to just meet a man and, you know, chat him up, because unless it’s in some gay bar— and I don’t think I’m about to just hop into one of those— not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. To each his own. But I’m a bit old for that sort of thing. Anyway, if it isn’t a gay bar, you can’t really know, can you? I mean, sometimes you might be able to guess, if someone falls into some stereotype or something, but that’s not exactly something I… well, basically, I told her I dated women because it is easier to know where I stand. Not because I’m hiding. She said it was just as easy to chat up a bloke as anyone else, and if he wasn’t gay, well, then he wasn’t. I’d find out soon enough. And if I guessed wrong, no one would care.” John looks around the cabin. It seems a little late for that, if he was worried about being overheard. Maybe there is something else he is nervous about discussing. “I don’t usually ramble on like this.” </p><p>Sherlock nods his encouragement. “Go on.”</p><p>“I told her I wasn’t exactly interested in dating anyone right now, and she said that was ‘complete and utter bollocks’. And I told her fine! I’d prove it wasn’t some fear thing. I’d talk to… that I’d talk to the first attractive man I saw. Just talk.” He shifts around in his seat. “To practice striking up a conversation! Not like asking strangers on dates, or anything! Just. Just to be able to chat someone up a bit, even if it went nowhere. I’m...I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I don’t think you need to apologise for compliments, John.”</p><p>It certainly throws him a bit, hearing his name, but then he looks at his mobile and then at Sherlock again, makes the connection, and nods. “She said if I could manage to do that, she’d tell her therapist all about it. And I really wanted her to keep going back again; she’s been really good for Harry. So we made a deal. I’d do it, and I’d text her when I had. That was...that was the text. And she just told me that she wanted some kind of proof, and I told her to piss off. I wasn’t about to prove anything to her.”</p><p>“Give me the mobile.”</p><p>“You aren’t serious.”</p><p>“I am very serious. Hand it over.” Sherlock holds his hand out, arching his palm slightly, and John places the mobile in it. Then he holds it flat on his lap, so John can see the screen easily, and texts.</p><p>
  <i>Hello, Harry. John has been talking to me for 13 minutes now.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Very funny.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>No, he isn't very funny. He has been a bit awkward, in fact, but not entirely devoid of interest.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You know what comes next, Bro. Pics or it didn’t happen.</i>
</p><p>Sherlock holds the phone at arm’s length to capture a perfect selfie of him with what he knows to be a rather exaggerated grin, a thin slice of thoroughly embarrassed, red-faced John alongside him.</p><p><i>Bye for now. Busy chatting.</i> </p><p>“That should do it,” Sherlock says, as he powers off the mobile. </p><p>“Wow, that was amazing.”</p><p>“Not a problem.”</p><p>“Most people would never do something like that. Thank you.”</p><p>“Most people are idiots.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah, I guess. Not exactly the word I would have used, but...actually, you’re right.”</p><p>“But not me.”</p><p>John laughs.</p><p>“I am not an idiot. What I am is a high-functioning sociopath.”</p><p>“Hah!”</p><p>“You find that humorous?”</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I have been here with you for, as you said, 13 minutes now—“</p><p>“15.”</p><p>“Fifteen minutes. And I know you are not a sociopath. The last thing a sociopath would do is tell you he’s a sociopath. Or apologize for startling me before. And another thing a sociopath would never do is help someone voluntarily for nothing in return.”</p><p>“Maybe I want something, then,”</p><p>“Right. Well, if you do, you aren’t likely to get it.”</p><p>“Not going to decide to encourage that impulsivity by running off to the latrine and joining the Mile High Club? I’m joking, I’m joking,” he adds, hopefully before John has a chance to react. “I have no interest in that whatsoever.” After a few seconds, he adds, “Believe me,” in an attempt to sound more convincing, and then realises John will likely think he’s overstating his case. What a fine aeroplane ride this is turning out to be.</p><p>John finally shuts his open mouth and nods once, tightly. “Well. Sorry to have bothered you with my… I have no idea what to call it, I guess. My… weird… family… thing. I hope you’re not too offended.”</p><p>“Offended by your finding me attractive? I suppose some people could theoretically be offended by being the first attractive man you saw after a long argument with your sister, but I am not one of them.”</p><p>“Well. Yes. Good. Again, sorry to have bothered you. You’re welcome to go back to your magazine.” John folds his hands on his lap, shifts his shoulders, and stares straight ahead, looking pained he hadn’t chosen a window seat.</p><p>Sherlock waves dismissively at the magazine. “Nothing but hairstyles, celebrity interviews with people I’ve never heard of, and sex tips. I couldn’t care less what women want in bed.”</p><p>“Oh! I figured you…”</p><p>“You thought I was straight because I wasn’t about to have a bathroom rendezvous? Terribly cramped, those things.”</p><p>“And the smell is horrible.”</p><p>Sherlock smiles, quite a bit less...sharky...this time. “Exactly.”</p><p>“I haven’t exactly reached that level of impulsivity. Dinner? I think all they have is a biscuit or a pack of pretzels.”</p><p>“Biscuit it is, then.” He extends his hand out. It seems the right thing to do. “Name’s Sherlock Holmes.” </p><p>“John Watson, as if you didn’t know already.” John takes it, and Sherlock frowns slightly. Whatever this is, or could be, he has blown it already. It doesn’t generally go over well, knowing things.</p><p>Sherlock leans against the window and closes his eyes. Conversation is still a bit exhausting at times. And John has certainly shared far more than he had intended. </p><p>John shifts in his chair once more. “Do you...do you mind if I just—“ He reaches toward the magazine. “Better than nothing.”</p><p>“Oh! Go right ahead. There’s an article on page 17 claiming bamboo sheets ensure a good night’s rest. Although lacking in methodology, it is a bit more relevant to your interests than the one comparing curling irons.”</p><p>“Won't make any difference when your flat is upstairs from a pub.”</p><p>“That’s dreadful.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I would sleep too well, anyway, even with lots of quiet and...bamboo.”</p><p>“Though I suppose it’s sometimes helpful to hear the sounds of other people having fun. Grounding. Rather than just emptiness.” Oh. Wait. That was not the right thing to say.</p><p>John straightens himself, gaining a few inches of height in the process, cocks his head and looks Sherlock directly in the eyes. “Look. I don’t know who the hell you are, but you can come clean of it right now. She put you up to this?”</p><p>“She meaning your sister? Well, no. I didn’t know anything about you until we met today. I thought, perhaps, your combat experience might have—“</p><p>“Aha! Gotcha!”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“I didn’t say a thing about Afghanistan. You heard it from her.”</p><p>“Afghanistan.”</p><p>“Right. You just, what, saw an ‘Afghanistan! Land of the Bright Skies!’ sticker on my flight bag?”</p><p>“I assure you I had no idea precisely where you had served. It was an easy enough deduction that you had served, however, given that you had a military bearing, especially whilst waiting in line to board the aircraft. Combined with your tanning pattern, it suggested a general region. Nothing more concrete than that.”</p><p>“You watched me lining up for the flight?”</p><p>“I watched everyone lining up for the flight. It’s a ..thing I do..when I’m bored.”</p><p>“So you just do this. You expect me to believe that?”</p><p>“Well, pick someone. If you need proof. Surely your sister couldn’t have rigged the entire plane.”</p><p>John gestures to a man two rows ahead in the aisle seat fiddling with his suitcase. “Him.”</p><p>“American pilot, returning from a brief holiday.”</p><p>“Pilot?”</p><p>“The indentation along his left thumb indicates that—”</p><p>“Nevermind. American? Why? Because he has a coffee? I like a coffee sometimes.”</p><p>“Black Travelpro suitcase, American flight industry standard, but not a pilot’s case, so not business-related. And of course there is the lack of a uniform, so returning from a pleasure trip. Confirming the profession, suggesting the country.”</p><p>John points to another random passenger. “Him.”</p><p>“Concert violinist. Auditioning. Callouses, tapping finger patterns of a rather difficult piece and frequently looking over to that bin, where his instrument is stored. It is perfectly safe, though the case is likely extremely dirty, as that backpacker sitting beneath the bin has stored beside it a rucksack which has been across Asia. That necklace is clearly from Nepal, and has been purchased recently. He keeps rubbing at the amber, but it has no groove in it. He’ll wear it down before too long. The new gym shoes are from Putian. If I were to head down the aisle, I could confirm where, precisely, the tobacco is from which he has been rolling recently that has stained his fingers, but frankly, if my only goal is proving to you that this meeting wasn’t orchestrated by your sister, I would hope I could do so without leaving my seat and having to suffer through whatever other odours he has amassed.”</p><p>“Yeah. You did. I didn’t mean to accuse you, I'm just, usually not that lucky.”</p><p>“Lucky?”</p><p>“Yeah. Interesting, good looking, and I haven’t scared him away yet with my awkward conversation.”</p><p>“Sounds like something I could be saying just as easily.” He finds himself smiling yet again. Must be some sort of record.</p><p>“Grab a pint, sometime?”</p><p>“No.” Sherlock scrambles to head off the misconception which he sees the beginnings of, etched in John’s browline. “No, I mean, I don’t drink. Bad for the work. Alcohol dulls the senses. Is there another socially acceptable thing to do?”</p><p>“Besides grabbing a pint? I...don’t know.”</p><p>Sherlock’s face brightened. “Move in with me.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“Look. You live in a miserable space over a pub. I could use a flatmate and you tolerate me more than most. Plus, you wanted to be adventurous without being too far over the line of normalcy.”</p><p>“You didn’t mention needing a flatmate before.”</p><p>“It is not so much my needing someone as my brother is convinced I am too distractable to run a household. My habits are, irregular. Yours are far from it.”</p><p>“True enough.”</p><p>“He and your sister both being meddling busybodies, the arrangement just might keep the two of them off our backs for the foreseeable future.  And when my brother offers you cash to provide some sort of report on me, take it. We’ll split the payments and concoct some story to keep him content.”</p><p>“Spy on you?”</p><p>“It wouldn’t be the first time.”</p><p>“Won’t he suspect something?”</p><p>“It’s perfect. Why would I hatch up a plan with a stranger I met on a plane?”</p><p>“We could claim we had some mutual friend...”</p><p>“Yes. We will need to decide on a name and a history.”</p><p>A voice filled the cabin. “This is your pilot, Captain Mike Stamford. We will begin our descent into Heathrow in about ten minutes. On behalf of myself and this London-based crew, we hope you have enjoyed your flight.”</p><p>“Ten minutes. We’ll think of something.”</p><p>“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Problem?”</p><p>“Depends on how well you play.”</p><p>“Not a problem at all, then.” He smiled again. Yes, definitely a record.</p>
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